


it's some kind of law

by kenopsia (indie)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Gen, M/M, Pining Greg, Pining Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 18:55:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indie/pseuds/kenopsia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The universe rarely lets us keep our first loves, Sherlock. It's some kind of law." A coda to TSOT. Sherlock should have at least one dance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's some kind of law

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry about the long wait on the running fics. I got swept up in S3 for a moment, but I've got a companion to this fic half written set halfway through HLV and then I'll get back to _every precious failure_ and _wild thing_. Come visit me at katiewont.tumblr.com to spaz out with me about Sherlock things on a daily basis.

Sherlock made his way for the back door as the warm glow left him, which coincided with John’s movement away to the dance floor.

“Where are you off to?” he heard, as he crossed the threshold.

“Ah...”

“Don’t run off just yet,” Lestrade said in a coaxing voice, the corners of his mouth curling up in something like amusement. “Have a smoke with me first.”

Sherlock glanced at his pack of cigarettes with a wary eye. “I shouldn’t. I have,” he trailed off, gesturing at his arm.

“A patch has never stopped you before,” Greg said, smiling genuinely at him.

_No, but three have._ He reached for a cigarette. “Baker street requires me,” he said, lighting it. He thought it would be quicker to start with a pair, suck them both down like a drowning man.

“Not before you dance a few, it doesn’t.”

Sherlock gave a dismissive scoff. “Tedious.”

“Oh come off it, you love dancing.”

“How would you know?”

“Your brother told me,” Greg admitted, expression complicated. “The first time we were together.”

Sherlock had had to purge everything about Lestrade that year, because he hadn’t known any other way to show solidarity to his statuesque brother. The fact that Lestrade remembered that made something uncoil in his chest, rippling like a fanged thing.

Sherlock finished his cigarette and lit another one from its end before he spoke again. “I asked him to come.”

“Mycroft?”

“Yes. I even said _please_. I asked him again before the reception. I was hoping…” Sherlock wasn’t sure why he seemed incapable of stopping the nasty deluge of sentiment today. Everyone in attendance must have been able to see it: might be thinking it now, even. _Poor Sherlock Holmes, so obviously lovestruck, and giving away his best friend._ In for a penny, because he apparently had the soft underbelly of a four legged mammal: “I’d hoped… I’d always assumed the two of you would get back together.”

“I know, Sherlock. You were never all that subtle.”

Hot shame burned in Sherlock’s stomach, remembering the way he’d torn back the curtain to show him the truth behind his wife’s late work hours and missed calls. He thought about it through the new lens, with a Greg looking on his transparent attempts with regret or pity.

Greg touched his shoulder. “The universe rarely lets us keep our first loves, Sherlock. It’s some kind of law.”

Sherlock’s eyes slammed shut. “I thought after two years… Being away, and fighting to get back… I thought I might get to.” His voice cracked humiliatingly in the middle.

“You should have,” he said, still touching him. He looked objectively handsome in his suit, and unbearably sad. “I had hoped for the same.”

_For me, or for you?_ Sherlock wondered. It didn’t matter though. Sherlock pulled his steely resolve on with his coat. _Being Sherlock Holmes,_ John had said. Somewhere in the last few years, Sherlock had lost his grip on what that meant, exactly, but he could start somewhere. “As pleasant as this trip down memory lane has been,” he said, flexing his arm in movement towards extricating himself.

Greg didn’t let go. “Come dance with me, you mad wanker.”

Sherlock followed him back inside. Greg Lestrade was not a natural dancer, but someone must have taught him at some point a socially acceptable way to keep a simple four-four tempo with his body. Sherlock was just grateful he was there; relieved that he would go  through the trouble of insisting so Sherlock could both be put upon and eat his cake, too.

Sherlock put on quite the show, rolling hips and shoulders jumping . John, on the other side of the dance floor was doing a truly appalling _thing_ with his knees. Sherlock gave him the thumbs up and John beamed back.

Greg laughed at him as he playfully tugged on his tie, music pulsing around him like a warm coat. It had been so _long_ since he’d had a chance like this. When Sherlock had dabbled in self-medicating his loneliness and boredom after Uni, he had occasionally ended up in clubs where he could dance with strangers, so high he couldn’t feel his face, but in his memory, there had never been a friend.

As the music faded, a slow song took its place, and Sherlock took a step back. “Thank you.”

“Oh, one more. Then you can skulk off.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Publically, you’ve always presented a certain image.”

“I’m already dancing with you, you git. What difference does it make? Besides. I’m fifty years old; I’m a DCI.” Lestrade stuck out his right hand, and Sherlock clasped it. “I draw the line at following, though.”

Lestrade pulled Sherlock close, but not tangent to his body. He was actually more sure of himself in a slow melody with an established motion than he had been with the last dance. Sherlock was almost impressed.

He had to tilt his face up to talk into Sherlock’s ear. “You made one hell of a speech today.”

“And solved a locked-room murder,” Sherlock said back, petulantly.

Lestrade squeezed his hand. “I didn’t forget about the solving a murder, but you always do a hell of a job of that.”

Sherlock’s thoughts had been running sluggishly all day, muddled beneath sentiment and anxiety. He let his eyes flutter closed and let Lestrade lead him around for long moments. When the song drew to a close, Sherlock finally stepped back, giving him a parting nod.

“Don’t give up on Mycroft.” Because John might be married now, but his idiot of a brother wasn’t.

“To be honest, I haven’t,” he said, pushing a hand through his silver hair, embarrassed. “The things we love come back to us, sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” Sherlock repeated, chin set at the most aloof angle of which he was aware. “Good evening, Greg.”

“That’s… actually my name.”

“Bugger!” Sherlock swore, tucking half of his mouth into a smile. “I was sure to bungle it eventually.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Some Fish Dance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151170) by [ilien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilien/pseuds/ilien)




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